A Hologram's Human Voice
by Felicia
Summary: The title says it all...


A Hologram's Human Voice  
By Felicia Ferguson  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: I own nary a character...although I would like to!  
  
Author's note: this was my entry for the SNW competition. And since I wasn't selected, I presume its safe to post it now.   
  
Summary: the title says it all.  
  
1/1  
  
  
Here, sitting in Sandrine's, staring out into the night, air thick with fog and memories, I see us. Young, beautiful and carefree; we were poetry. In Marseilles, away from his father's omniscient eyes, and somewhat sheltered from the fish bowl life of an admiral's son, Tommy thrived. He would occasionally skip his day classes and we would spend the mornings in bed lazing away until the late afternoon. Then we'd stroll down the boulevard, watching people, until we finally ended up here, where the Paris charm was at full force.   
  
God, Sandrine ate him up. And Tom loved every minute of it -- almost as much as he loved that pool table. I could, and did, watch him play pool for hours on end. The way he handled a cue, stroking it as if it were my skin. How he would lean over the table bringing to mind all the myriad positions we indulged in. It was poetic.   
  
Our break-up was as idyllic as our relationship. Standing in the rain at the spaceport as he boarded to leave for Deep Space Nine, hoping to catch up with a couple of old friends from the Academy who were now members of the Maquis. He had said it was something he had to do, something that he hoped would straighten out his life. The accident had changed him. He was no longer the carefree cadet with the stars in his grasp. He was a man haunted by his dead friends and tormented by his father's final disapproval.   
  
And now, years later, he's returned a hero. Fully pardoned from his charges, due to his exemplary service on Voyager. He's turned a complete 180 from the man who left me at the spaceport. I've seen the logs of the ship's database, including the list of field commissions granted by Janeway. I didn't have to go through the normal channels to access the files -- I'm sleeping with an engineer posted to Utopia Planetia. Not a very stimulating conversationalist, but the sex is good and so are the benefits: unrestricted access to the unclassified logs of Voyager.  
  
I, like the rest of the Alpha Quadrant, was curious about what had happened over the past eight or so years. Who they met, the things they did, but mostly my curiosity was motivated by a selfish need to know the answer to one question: Had Tom missed me? Despite the fact that we had parted ways when he'd joined the Maquis and was summarily arrested, of all my lovers he was my favorite. Was it egotistical to wonder if he'd thought of me?  
  
To be completely honest, I hadn't expected to find any mention of me, even in his personal logs. We had some good times, and lots of great sex, but the relationship was nothing if not straightforward and without strings, a classic French romance. So, imagine my surprise when I found holodeck program Paris   
Three.  
  
There I was, live and in technicolor, as the saying goes. I must admit, when I first met my photonic alter-ego I was a little disappointed. Had I really been that clingy? I studied the logs, determining the number of times my program had been accessed, smiling at the high double-digit figure in the first year of Voyager's accidental exile. My Tommy had missed me. Or at least, he craved some reminder of normalcy.   
  
As I paged through the list of holocharacters, I noticed the number decreased as the second year passed. Then, suddenly, and without any real warning, the list for Sandrine's was another character short. I had been deleted. I remember wondering if my program had been lost or damaged in some sort of attack.   
But as I cross-checked the official crew logs, I found that, while the holodecks were damaged several times, none of the programs had suffered until later in the voyage. Confused, I read through Tom's personal logs -- I told you sleeping with an engineer has its benefits.  
  
The dwindling number of times my program was accessed directly coincided with the beginnings of his flirtation with her. My program was deleted the day after they had returned from an away mission to some planet called Sakari IV.   
The bells attached to the door jingle and I look up. He's here. I knew he would be hence the reason for my visit. I'm not quite the bar fly any more, but I still get around. I had heard through the 'Fleet grapevine that the senior officers would be crashing the place tonight. Tired of all the pomp and circumstance surrounding Voyager's return, it was naturally decided that a trip to Tom's favorite nightspot was in order.  
  
The rugged lines of my former lover snag my gaze. He's out of uniform and devastatingly handsome in a blue pull over and jeans. He turns to someone behind him and laughingly says something, but I don't hear the words. Instead, I hear the sounds. He's happy. He's truly happy. In the year that we were lovers, I never heard that lilt in his laugh. Nor did I see that look in his eyes. Especially when he turns to a half-Klingon woman.   
  
Something sharp stabs at my heart. I knew she would be here. They're married now and even have a child, but somehow I guess I wasn't ready for the reality. For the physical proof that the Tom I knew is gone. I'm not naïve, you know. He never loved me, just as I never loved him. At least not the way she obviously does.  
  
I watch the caramel-colored woman who has claimed my Tom as her own. She's not like anything I expected, and yet, she's everything I expected. Beautiful to turn his head, intriguing to catch his mind, and a nonpareil to capture his soul. The light in her eyes and the tone in her voice as she looks at her   
husband and asks, "What? No Gaunt Gary?" says it all. They are mated, two distinct people bound together by love and devotion.   
  
He grabs her hand, pulling her close for a quick kiss, and then leads her to the bar. The others follow behind them. From my table in the corner, I shrink a little further into the shadows, subconsciously knowing they won't see me, but unwilling to make my presence known yet. I need to watch them a little longer.   
The vids didn't do them justice. When Voyager first docked, every news media in the quadrant showed up to cover what had to be the biggest story since the Dominion War. Janeway doesn't look quite so commanding in a softly flowing pantsuit. Nor does the Indian first officer appear as domineering with his arm draped around the former Borg drone. God, now that's a news item if I ever heard one.  
  
Just as Tommy gets to the bar, Sandrine comes out from the back. She greets him with a hailstorm of kisses, pulling him into her arms. I watch his wife's reactions. As a half-Klingon, notorious for her temper, I can only shudder to guess what she might do in the next few minutes. Since their unexpected return to the Alpha Quadrant a few months ago, she's been helping with the refit at Utopia Planetia. My engineer has told me on several occasions just how hot that temper can get if the slightest thing goes wrong at UP. To my surprise, she merely stands there, hand still entwined with his, smiling with decided amusement, yet another piece of evidence that they are solidly together. She's not jealous, but happy for him instead.  
  
Tom orders a bottle of the '46 St. Emillion that Sandrine, to this day, still keeps behind the bar just for him. As he turns back to count out the number of glasses, something surprises him. I know the instant I see his eyes that he realizes I'm here. A warm grin spreads over his face and I find myself comparing it to the smile he gave his wife only moments ago. The one for me lacks something intangible but definitely noticeable.  
  
He excuses himself and walks toward my table. I don't have time to prepare my words, even if I could. I manage, "Hi, Tom," with only slight difficulty. He rests his left hand on the chair opposite me and the gold band encircling his fourth finger catches the light. I swallow reflexively. "It's good to see you."  
  
Still, he hasn't said a word. I guess he really never did expect to see me again. "Ricky," he answers. "It's good to see you, too." No doubt he's absorbing the changes the last few years have wrought with me just as I did with him. The difference is, I've had almost 20 minutes, while he's had maybe 20 seconds.  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone approaching. I can tell by the slight shift in his stance that he instinctively knows who it is. Dropping his left hand to clasp hers, he introduces us. "B'Elanna, this is Ricky."  
  
"We've met," she replies wryly, though the tone has less bite than expected.   
I have to smile at the irony, and I nod. "I know. I've heard about the holodeck program."  
  
He searches my face to see if I'm upset then relaxes when he reads the acceptance in my eyes. "It's nice to meet you in person, Lieutenant," I add, certain I wasn't about to call her Mrs. Paris and yet still unclear as to whether we were on good enough terms to call her B'Elanna.  
  
I watch him carefully to see if he knows. So far, nothing but a dim recollection that something of importance must have brought me here. Then I see the light in his eyes. He remembers. It's been exactly eight years since our break up.   
  
His wife, knowing something is wrong, looks up at him and prompts, "Tom?"  
He squeezes her hand and says, "It's nothing."  
  
From across the room, I hear someone calling for them. It's the Borg, I think. I offer him a small, sad smile and excuse the apology on his lips. "I'd better be going. I'm meeting someone for dinner."  
  
Tom nods and B'Elanna turns to walk back to the rest of their party. Just as I reach the door, Tom murmurs his last good-bye, "Take care of yourself."  
I feel my lips curl up in the first real smile of the night. He returns it, eyes full of memories, but completely satisfied with his new life. He turns away, easily blending in with his friends, joining their jaunty laughter and good-natured ribbing. I nod and open the door, accepting the token for what it is: a quixotic end end to an unforgotten time. He's not the man I knew. He's the man I wish I had known. 


End file.
